Connor tasted the claret again. His respect for David had suddenly mounted; the hermit seemed nearer to him.
"You grew these grapes in your valley?" he repeated softly.
"This very bottle we are drinking," said David, warming to the talk. "I remember when the grapes of this vintage were picked; I was a boy, then."
"I believe it," answered Connor solemnly, and he raised the cup with a reverent hand, so that the sun filtered into the red and filled the liquid with dancing points of light.
"It is a full twenty years old."
"It is twenty-five years old," said David calmly, "and this is the best vintage in ten years." He sighed. "It is now in its perfect prime and next year it will not be the same. You shall help me finish the stock, Benjamin."
"You need not urge me," smiled Connor.
He shook his head again.
"But that is one wine I could have vowed I knew—Médoc. At least, I can tell you the soil it grows in."
The brows of the host raised; he began to listen intently.